


The Sun and the Moon

by MarirnersRevenge



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Diners, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, One Shot Collection, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22243780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarirnersRevenge/pseuds/MarirnersRevenge
Summary: A collection of Arthur/Tilly one shots
Relationships: Tilly Jackson/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 57





	1. Coffee Shop/Diner AU

**Author's Note:**

> I figured if I want more Tilly and Arthur stories I'll need to actually write them. So here we are. Many of these are one shots, ideas that I want to expand upon when I have more time. I hope you enjoy them.
> 
> The diner/coffee shop modern au nobody asked for but I frankly couldn't resist

It was the third time in as many days that Tilly wondered if she made the right decision.

The cold mountain air burned her lungs with each inhale as she navigated the icy sidewalk. Clutching her oversized winter coat closer to her body, she longed for the warm fall days and cool nights of the south. She even missed the days when they would shut everything down just because the forecast called for snow that never came. 

The only thing she didn’t miss were the people.

She thought when she made the move halfway across the country to Montana- of all places- that she would miss the people of her hometown. 

In some ways, she did. 

She missed seeing the familiar faces of people she went to school with. The weird twitchy folks that would frequent the Waffle House she worked at. The smell of burning wood in the fall and magnolia blossoms in the spring. The way that summer lingered like a date she never wanted to end; despite her complaints that her hometown was a testament to man’s hubris because they built it on the surface of the sun. 

Yes, in some ways she misses her home but it never really felt like home.

She feels the deep ache of loneliness creeping again. A melancholic blanket that tangles around her legs and catches in her hair. Icy as the wind that slices through her winter clothes. She breathes out slowly and focuses on what she needs done.

Get groceries.

Clean apartment.

Call-

Tilly’s thoughts were interrupted when she stepped on a particularly large patch of ice in front of a diner. Her arms instinctively went out to grab a hold of something- anything- to stop her descent but it was too late. Her right foot slid out from beneath her and she braced herself for impact. 

But it never came.

Warm hands held her body upright, stopping her fall before she had tipped too far back. They braced against her shoulders, warm and heavy. She could feel the strength in them as they slowly slid down to her upper arms. One flex of those hands could very easily break her in half and yet Tilly feels herself being guided gently to the side. Once her feet find purchase on the sidewalk the hands leave her and she feels lost. 

Looking up, she meets the concerned gaze of blue-green eyes shadowed by the brim of a well worn honest to goodness cowboy hat. She wants to laugh at the absurdity of the thing- given that it’s winter and she’s never actually seen one up close outside of movies- but she’s trapped in that gaze. It reminded her of the summers spent gazing out at the rolling ocean. She could almost hear the roar of the waves and the call of the gulls. Feel the gentle warmth and rock of the water as it cradles her body. The icy ache in her chest lessens and she realizes that she’s staring.

She’s staring at a virtual stranger- that very well saved her from having to visit the doctor the first week in her new hometown- without saying a word. 

Oh my God.

Jesus fucking Christ.

No wonder he’s looking at her like that. He must think she’s crazy or stupid or both.

Tilly quickly averts her gaze to her boots. Oh God, just kill me now. Her cheeks feel hot and her tongue heavy in her mouth but before she can probably stutter a thanks he’s walking away.

Yup, way to go, Tilly. 

Way to fuck that up.

Sighing deeply, she steps around the ice patch and continues on.

Later that night, she dreams of deep pools of water and warm hands that cradle her face.

* * *

“Oh, he is one tall drink of water and I am thirsty. Mm!”

Tilly looks up from the doodle she was drawing on a paper napkin to look at Karen. She was busy fanning herself with one of the greasy menus and eyeing a man that had just walked in. He was tall- but anyone over Tilly’s 5’3” frame was considered a giant to her- and she could see the power in his body. 

He slowly took off his gloves and stuffed them into the pocket of his thick wool lined blue coat before unbuttoning it and sliding it off. Underneath the coat he wore a thick grey henley that hugged the muscles in his chest and arms.

“Motherfucker, he’s built like fucking truck.”

Tilly’s face grew hot as she listened to Karen’s creative claims of what a body like that could do to her. 

He sauntered further into diner’s seating area and Tilly heard Karen pleading that he sit at one of her tables. She snapped her fingers and cursed when he sat at one of Tilly’s.

“Go on, kid. Take that fellas order. I’ll just be over here daydreaming about big burly men.”

“Are you sure? I can take the next customer…”

Karen considers it for a moment before shaking her head.

“Nah. Your shift is almost over.” Karen constant smirk turns salacious and she nudges Tilly with her hip. “May as well end it right, huh?”

Tilly shakes her head, abandoning the napkin she was drawing on she makes her way over to his table. His head is turned in profile as his large frame slouches in the booth. His square jaw is covered in a couple of days of stubble and he has an old scar on the bridge of his nose. His close cropped sandy brown hair was slicked back from his face. 

Damn, he was gorgeous.

And probably older than her.

Which means I am going to fuck this up, Tilly thought as she got closer. She looked over her shoulder at Karen who just smiled and winked.

Yup, completely fucked.

Damn these older gorgeous men.

Tilly fumbled slightly with her order pad and cleared her throat. She had made up her mind as she walked those last few feet to absolutely not make any type of eye contact.

Or else she will have another incident and have to move towns.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Tilly quietly greeted as she stared intently at her order pad, “What can I get for you today?”

“Coffee. Black, no sugar.”

His voice was low, a timber that reminded her of the growl of a bear. It slid across her body like the whisper of a cool sheet against her skin and she felt shivers rack down her spine. 

Properly fucked now.

She thanked everything that is holy that her blush wouldn’t show but she was pretty sure that he could feel the heat radiating off her. 

“W-will that be all, sir?”

“...Yeah.”

Tilly nodded before quickly escaping back behind the counter and started making his order. She missed his measured stare that followed her progress and watched her face. She missed the small soft smile that flitted across his. There and gone like the flash of afternoon sunlight off a moving car. 

Tilly buries her face in her hands and groans.

You can do this, Tilly. He’s just a man. A burly, gorgeous man with a voice that purrs like a big cat and- 

Fuck. 

Your fucked, Tilly Jackson.

Carefully grabbing the mug from the coffee machine, she navigates her way back towards him. His hands were on the table this time and she stares at them. Big, heavy hands that looked rough from work. Littered with scars, old and new. If you could measure years on a tree by its rings, she wondered if you could do the same with his hands. She felt like picking one up and examining the scars across the knuckles. The cracks in his palms and feel the roughness of his finger tips. She wanted to see how his hand would dwarf hers in their grasp. How it would feel against her cheek. 

That yawning feeling within her grew and she ached.

Placing the coffee down, she withdrew a napkin from her apron pouch. Clutching her order pad to her chest like a shield she watched his hands curl around the mug.

“Is… Is that all, sir?”

He tapped his middle finger against the chipped coffee mug and moved forward into her field of view. Tilly takes a small step back, eyes wide as she’s suddenly looking into the ocean again. 

It was him.

He takes in her expression and the small step she took away. He must have scared her. He knew that he could be intimidating. A big, sour faced man. Too ornery for his own good. It was the only reason some people kept him around. It was the main reason why people left.

Goddamnit, Morgan. 

“I’m sorry if I scared you, miss. I don’t need anything else at the moment.”

Tilly nods her head and inches away from the table back to a grinning Karen. Back to when she didn’t know the face and the voice of the eyes that haunted her dreams. Where her body didn’t feel like it had come untethered from the ground.

He leaves shortly after paying and when Tilly collects his cup from the table she finds an intricate drawing of a larkspur on a folded napkin. 

_ For your trouble. _

He had left a $20 tip.


	2. Slow Dance With You

“I hope you can make it.”

Tilly felt bashful and ridiculous. She was acting like this was the first birthday party she had ever invited anyone to. In a way it was. She had a new group of friends thanks to Mary-Beth and Karen and she had Arthur. Well, she didn’t have him. He wasn’t an object to be owned but he was her most trusted... friend? She wasn’t sure what she should call him. “Friends” seemed too common a word for what she has with him. She hesitated to call it a relationship. She’s made that mistake before and it cost her more years of her life than she ever wanted to admit.

Arthur was her… person.

He was hers and she’ll gladly take that to her grave.

Arthur was silent for a moment, contemplating the hay covered dirt floor of the stable. 

“Hm,” He said as he began to brush Boudica’s flanks. Tilly moved closer and rubbed the horse’s nose gently, chuckling softly as Boudica snuffled her palm. Arthur watches her as she continues to move her hand over the horse's neck. She was so gentle with each animal on his small ranch. Treating each one with care and gentleness that he had yet to encounter with any of his previous ranch hands. And while she wasn’t officially employed by him (he still paid her for any work she did, even when she didn’t work), he still appreciated her help all the same. It was another aspect of her that he… liked. She did things out of the goodness in her heart with no expectations or personal gain. 

“I suppose I ought to go,” he drawled, “‘S not every day you’ll turn twenty-four.”

Tilly’s eyes widened with surprise and Arthur chuckled at the expression. Her answering smile was quickly becoming one of the top ten most beautiful sunrises he’s ever seen.

* * *

Karen had invited everyone. Tilly didn’t even know there were this many people her age in town. She suspected that they were from the neighboring city one hours time away. Her living room was packed to the brim full of people but there was only one she was looking for. 

He sat on the sill of the open window, a beer bottle clutched in his hand, as the other tapped the beat of the song on the wood. She had never seen him so relaxed. For a moment when he arrived she was afraid he would bolt. Her friends didn’t say anything to her, yet, about her friendship with Arthur. Mary-Beth and Karen practically pulled him in by the rolled up sleeves of his collared shirt, handed him a beer bottle and began introducing him to everyone before depositing him by the window where Tilly had found him. 

She leaned against the wall next to him and bumped his wide shoulders with hers in greeting. He bumped hers back lightly and for just a moment- a second, really, that felt like an eternity but was not long enough- leaned into him. He didn’t move away from the contact. Not like the other times when he seemed hesitant to touch her arm or shoulder. He let her lean into him for that smallest of moments. Inconsequential to most who were touched by or touched others. But for Tilly it was a whole new world. 

A world made of small touches and small gifts and the gentle hum of togetherness in whatever form they wanted. She didn’t have to worry about keeping up a conversation with him. She could speak all the time or not at all. He in turn sometimes had a lot to say and sometimes nothing at all. 

The track changed to a slower song and Tilly caught Mary-Beth giving her a thumbs up from across the room. If Arthur noticed her didn’t say anything but Tilly suspected he had. 

“I hope you’re having a good time, Arthur.”

He turned his head and gave that soft smile that seemed made for her.

“I am.”

They sat in silence listening and watching the other couples move around the makeshift dance floor. Tilly swayed to the beat and hummed under her breath, closing her eyes. She missed the way Arthur’s gaze traveled over her face before focusing on her lips. He came to a decision.

“May I have this dance, Miss Tilly?”

Tilly opened her eyes to Arthur bowing slightly towards her, his hand outstretched. Her mouth parted and her cheeks felt hot as she took his proffered hand. He pulled her closer to his body, his large hands encircling her waist, and she instinctively reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck. 

The party melted away and it was only them. 

Two people dancing on the edge of a world they created. She only knew of him. The rough brush of his day old stubble, the smell of leather and mint and fresh mountain air, the way his hands burned her skin through her shirt. 

The beat of her heart in his chest. 

His thumb rubbed the small stretch of skin on her back that had become exposed and he marveled at how small she was. At the softness of her skin and the way she always smells of spring flowers. He felt her small hands play with the hair on the back of his neck and he is wrecked.

They moved as one, heedless of any attention they garnered, of any time that may have passed. Two stars trapped in each others orbit, giving and taking. Neither left for long without the other. 

But all things must come to an end and the song faded out letting the outside in once more. 

They were unconscious that they had even moved. Her head against his chest, his temple against her crown. Her arms wrapped around his neck and his around her back cradling her to him. When was the last time she had felt safe? Was it when she was a kid being wrapped in the arms of her parents during a thunderstorm? When the court appointed therapist held her hand and told her it wasn’t her fault they did that to her? She didn’t know but what she did know was that she never wanted anyone else’s arms around her. 

She felt rather than heard Arthur’s sharp intake of breath. He felt as if he had just come up from being underwater for a long time. The breath burned his lungs and he nearly choked on it. He needed to get away. He had forgotten himself. His arms slowly moved from around her body and they both shivered from the loss of heat.

“I have to go,” he whispered into her hair. She nodded against his chest, her arms reluctant to leave from around him. She gave his neck a squeeze- that he answered with a squeeze of his hands that were still perched on her hips- before stepping back. Before she could step too far, he leaned in and kissed her temple. 

“Happy birthday, Tilly,” his lips lingered by her ear.

And then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes to Mutual Pining and slow dances and temple kisses. No to Arthur's unhealthy levels of self-hatred.


	3. Selfish

“My name’s Arthur Morgan and I’m the best rootin’ tootin’ cowboy this side of the Rocky Mountains!”

“C’mon, Tilly, I don’t sound like that at all!”

Tilly wiggles her eyebrows and adjusts Arthur’s hat on her head. It sinks down over her curls and over her forehead, shrouding her eyes in shadow. Arthur turns his face away. She looked so adorable and he was afraid of what he will do if he keeps staring at her.

God, he wanted... Well, he didn’t know what he wanted but he knew it had something to do with her.

“I beg to differ, Mr. Morgan,” her voice taking on a soft teasing lilt and he feels heat arch down his spine. “You sound exactly like a bear.”

“Like what?”

“Like a bear! All growly and gruff,” Tilly laughs, feeling her ears heat remembering the first time she had heard him speak. “You know like ‘ _ grrr I’m Arthur! Grrrr’!”  _

They both begin to laugh. Arthur mostly at Tilly’s terrible imitations. His eyes never strayed from her happy and content face. 

He never thought she could be more beautiful.

She lay in the grass surrounded by wildflowers, wearing a long flowing yellow dress and his old worn cowboy hat that fell over her eyes and pushed her ear tips down. Laughing so brightly in the sun.

And his heart  _ hurt _ .

It lurched in his chest, pulling him forward towards her and he thought maybe this is why Icarus flew so high. Because he would gladly burn in her light, even if it sent him careening towards the Earth later.

He was too much of a pessimist to think she would ever feel the same as him. He wasn’t…wasn’t a good man. He didn’t deserve her friendship or time, much less her trust. 

But he was a selfish man and he would stay as long as she wanted him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur does sound like a bear imo


	4. Letting Go

She didn’t want to accuse him of being dishonest to her. She had no claim to him. As much as she wished it, she had no claim. What he did in his own time was his to do. She just thought… It doesn’t matter what she thought now that she knew. But she’s not going to lie, his omission of the truth hurt her like nothing before. She could take it when it was Anthony or his cousin. With them she had known that they were dishonest as the day is long. She had come to expect that of them. It was a constant in a world of inconstants. How sad. But she was no longer a Foreman girl. Any remnants of that life had long been buried and while she saw Anthony earlier in the year he never bothered her again. No, their lies never hurt her like the way Arthur’s did.

“Why do you always help that woman?” She hates that her voice waivers. She hates the way her heart cracks with each exhale. 

Arthur pauses in the doorway of the kitchen and clears his throat. He had nothing to say in the matter of Mary Linton. Truthfully he was just as surprised as Tilly that she showed up again. Well not exactly. Mary always had a penchant for showing up when you least expect it. He knew he should have told Tilly what he was doing. He had promised himself he wouldn’t make the same mistakes. But apparently, he was a slave to fate, karma, whatever higher power that deemed it necessary to punish him for past mistakes.

“She needed help.”

“She doesn’t deserve your help.”

Her voice is a vicious whisper and Arthur flinches. He wished that she was yelling. Yelling he could take. This was so much worse and he lets it slice his skin. 

“I know,” his voice is soft and full of remorse and Tilly wishes that she could hate him, “I know she doesn’t deserve it.”  _ Not after everything.  _ “She asked for help-”

“Oh she asked! I guess that makes it all ok now!”

Finally she yells and he welcomes the heat of her anger.

“She uses you!” she shouts, jabbing her finger at him, “Every time I watch you go to her. And every time you come back I have to pick up your pieces! Don’t you see that?”

“I know what she is, Tilly! I know that I’m only as good as a dog to her. That she only keeps me around to do her dirty work! I’ve known that since I was eighteen years old!” Arthur growls as he scrubs his hand across his face. “What’s it matter to you anyway?”

Tilly takes a step back. 

“Because you are my friend.”

Arthur feels reckless, angry. Maybe he’s just angry with himself, maybe angry at Tilly for bringing this up now. Maybe angry at Mary for always putting him this position. 

“Oh a friend?” he scoffs, feeling the anger swirl through him, “I have enough  _ friends. _ ”

Tilly shakes her head in dismay, “Friends don’t treat their friends that way. Just because you remember how she was before all of this doesn’t excuse anything and you know it, Arthur.”

“Sure. So what? Suddenly you’re the expert on friends now?” He sneers and Tilly recoils. “Last I checked you were in the same boat as me, sweetheart. And let’s not forget when you came to  _ me _ to fix your little problems. You’re no better than Mary.”

Her hand stings before she realizes she had slapped him. Vaguely she feels the sting of remorse at hurting him but she is too deep into her grief for it to take root. Her lips quiver and she gasps a sob that strangles her.

“How dare you.”

His face is still turned away from her, an angry red blotch forming on his cheek. His jaw ticked and his eyes remained closed. He knew that at some point Tilly would figure out how much of a mess he is. He just didn’t think it would take so long for her to figure him out. He was a shell of a man. A husk powered by his past regrets and his misdeeds. Haunted by the memories of the life he would have had and the life he does. 

He had done the very thing he had sworn he wouldn’t do to her. 

He had hurt her.

This pain was worse than anything Mary put him through. He thought he didn’t have any heart left to break but there it was. Brittle and sharp pieces that had been shoddily glued together falling apart in the cavern of his chest. He could feel the catch of each shard in his skin. Hear the clinking of glass with each intake of breath. 

She paces back towards the kitchen counter. Her arms curl around her chest, trying in vain to protect the remnants of her heart. He wants to go to her. To soothe the hurt he had caused. To hold her close and see that smile that blinds him, disarms him, again. He doesn’t move. He deserves her condemnation and her violence. He was a bastard. It’s best she realizes that now.

God, this  _ fucking _ hurt.

The silence formed a wall between them, daunting and insurmountable. Despite the pain, despite the anguish she felt, she wanted nothing more than to cross the gap.

“I am  _ nothing _ like Mary.” her voice barely a whisper.

Arthur looks down at his feet. 

“God,” she lets out a wet laugh. It tasted bitter like almonds in her mouth and she smiles despite the tears pooling in her eyes. “You know. I actually thought you were hurt this time. That you had been stabbed again and lying in some ditch or alleyway dying.”

Tilly pauses and looks up towards the ceiling trying to stem the sea gathering behind her eyes.

“But then you show up as if nothing had happened. As if I wasn’t worrying about you for  _ days _ . I guess I…” 

She stops talking and shakes her head. She grabs her jacket from the back of a kitchen chair and opens the backdoor. 

“You have a good night.”

The soft click of the door reverberates throughout the house and he hates himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing angst is best done at 3:00 am. Or is it worst done? {shrug}


	5. Calling

Do you love her? Or is she just a placeholder for someone else that would never love you back? 

The thought should surprise him but it doesn't. There was no easy answer for that question. Arthur knows this. He knows that he did but his feelings had changed somewhere along the way. The love for her had faded out but part of him did. Part of him still remembered the days and nights they spent together. Two people bent on fighting the world to be together. But things change and people move on. He wants to say that it’s because he realized the love he had for Mary came with too many stipulations. Too many hurdles to jump through. Because with Tilly, he didn’t know he was even falling in love until that day in the wildflower field. When she tried to imitate his voice while wearing his hat and couldn’t keep it up. Where she laughed so freely and smiled so brightly and he fell hard. Maybe before that at her birthday party where he never wanted to let go. He can hardly say any of that after he acted like a fucking bastard. He knew that he needed to earn the trust again. Earn the place in her heart that he wanted. He wasn't going to fuck it up again. 

“I… I’m not good with words,” he began slowly, carefully choosing each word so she doesn’t misunderstand. He won’t repeat that mistake. 

“I can’t give you any guarantees that my love is real in words. Me and my big mouth seem to get me into more trouble than I’m worth.”

Tilly scoffs wetly and shakes her head, a silent plea.

“I can’t tell you the words you want to hear that will make your mind stop questioning. I can tell you that I fell in love with you from the moment you came into my life. Everyday a little more. Until one day I woke up and I realized that my heart had started beating again.”

As he spoke he crossed the gap between them and tentatively picked up her hand. He placed it above his heart and she felt the wild staccato of it. 

“I look at you everyday and wonder how I got to be so lucky,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers, “I can’t guarantee that I will say or do anything that won’t drive you up the wall. That you won’t question why you stay. But I can promise that no matter what I will show you how much you mean to me.”

“Arthur… I can’t… I can’t be with someone who answers to another,” Tilly began softly as tears leaked from her eyes. “I can’t go into this knowing that one day they’ll come around and you’ll leave again without a second thought.”

Arthur moved his hands to her face and cradled it. His thumbs wiped the tears that had fallen with such care and she leaned into his touch. 

“I know and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m a bastard and a fool and I hurt you,” he murmured and she grasped his shirt, pulling him closer. 

“You don’t have to say it back to me,” he whispered, breath ghosting over her damp cheeks, his fingers lightly drawing patterns into her skin, “I know I need to earn them and I’m going to make sure that I do it right this time.”

He loved her.

She felt the gaping hole in her chest knit together. The bone reforming, hardening under newly formed muscles, blood flowing once again through veins. 

He loved her. 

Her heart beat once, twice. It thrummed a rhythm, both ancient and new. And she marveled at it. Each beat chanted his name. A prayer, a plea, a warning, a call, a song. It ached and arched and soared.

He loved her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember how I said that some of these were connected? I didn't? Oh, I thought I did.


	6. Revenant

A man leaned against the brick wall of the alley. The putrid scent of trash and shit assaulted his nose and he wishes that his bosses had chosen a different location for their business. Saint Denis was full of places that would have been better. But after a man had robbed their gambling den above the gun shop his bosses became paranoid. So they moved to this little hell hole in the wall. Not that he would ever voice his displeasure. 

Angelo Bronte was not a man to be crossed. As a group of so called outlaws soon found out. 

He had heard that a couple of the group died when they were ambushed by Pinkertons out by the river that ran near Rhodes. Or was it the Night Folk? He couldn’t quite recall. The news article spoke of the triumphant Pinkerton agents that took down the notorious second in command Arthur Morgan. Commemorations and posthumous awards were listed for all participants. 

A crippling blow, the article shouted, to the Dutch Van Der Linde boys. 

It was a perfect piece of propaganda. Many denizens of Saint Denis went to bed that night in relief that their government officials and police department were doing their jobs. The Van Der Linde gang melted into the shadows. Dissipating like smoke from a cigarette. 

An impressive cover up for what actually happened. 

Or rather what he had heard that had happened.

According to rumor, the Pinkertons made a mistake. 

They stormed the river shore hideaway of the gang in droves, quickly pinning the gang members that were there down. Pictures of tents riddled with holes like Swiss cheese, the trees and plants completely shredded. It didn’t take a genius to know that couldn’t have just come from regular guns. A quieter rumor whispered that they were armed with a Gatling gun from the military fort. 

In the ensuing shootout, there was a casualty. 

The mistake. 

If you could call killing a woman one.

They said that the man, Arthur Morgan, let out an inhuman moan when the bullet struck her. He had grabbed her fallen body and took cover behind an upturned table.

Until then, both sides had not suffered any casualties. Until then both sides were likely to have run out of bullets and have to resort to fists. 

Until then…

They say that the man vaulted the table and roared. Some claim to have heard it as far as Emerald Station. Others claimed that people as far as Annesburg had heard it. Whatever the exaggeration was, his roar put fear in the hearts of the men that were there.

That man- beast - tore those men apart. 

He remembers the bodies being wheeled into the police station’s cellar. Their bruised and bloodied faces staring listlessly up at the sky. Men with bent and broken bones like a discarded marionette thoughtlessly cast aside by a child. They cried out for their mothers, lovers. In the following weeks after the event, those men quietly retired. 

One man did that. 

It took the remaining forces emptying the rest of their ammo into him to stop the carnage. His hand was still closed tightly over the broken neck of an officer. 

The officer that had shot the woman.

The man pulled a cigarette and lit it, shuddering against the slight chill in the air. Taking a long drag from the cigarette between his fingers, he glanced around the alleyway. Empty bottles, bent cans and old used newspapers littered the floor. The brick walls were crusted with unknown substances and he made a note to have them triple wash his clothing when he got back. The clatter of a can drew his attention to the opposite opening of the alley. He stepped slightly away from the wall and stared in the direction of the noise, squinting into the darkness. 

The opening to the alley was empty. 

For a few tense seconds he waited. The hair on his arms rose and his heart swooped in and out of his chest. 

He waited.

And nothing happened. 

Shaking his head, the man relaxed his posture. It must have been a cat passing through or a rat. He brought his forgotten cigarette back to his mouth, when the clatter sounded again. This time it was from the other end of the alley. The side that leads out into a small courtyard. He leans forward again, away from the wall and takes a step in that direction. He squints again into the looming darkness. Trying to spot what had caused the noise. 

“Who’s there?”

His voice echoes in the alley. It bounces against the brick walls. Sweat beaded around his brow and his hand moved to the revolver in his holster. He stops at the edge of the lamp lights’ circle. The edges flickering in time with the flame. He stares into the darkness. It looms around the periphery, swirling but never breaching the lights’ protective barrier. The hairs on the back of the his neck rise. The silence of the night presses into his skin. It pops and sizzles against his ears. He swallows convulsively, nervously. The tension of his body itches and stretches with each passing moment. It felt like minutes, hours, days but he knew that it had only been a couple of seconds, maybe ten, since the noise. The noise sounds again but this time from the opposite end. Towards the entrance. He quickly grabs his gun and points in it’s direction. The barrel wavering with the tremors of his body. He licks his lips, sharp puffs of air expelling into the night as his eyes dart wildly.

“Stop fucking around and show yourself!”

The darkness presses against the light, seething. The silence presses in closer, suffocating. It batters against his senses and he shivers. Cold sweat beading furiously against his skin. His shirt stuck to his back uncomfortably. The entryway to the alley is empty. Light from the gas lamps illuminating the rectangular space. The uneasiness scratches and claws him. He knows that in order to get to the courtyard you have to walk past him. He knows that there are no houses or doors boarding it. 

He knows there was no exit to the courtyard.

He becomes aware of how alone he truly is. 

Heavy footsteps sound from behind him. Slow and measured as if the person is just taking a leisurely stroll. The scuff and thunk of the boots pound against his chest. His heart dips low into his belly, frantically beating like the wings of a tiny bird. He spins around, pointing his gun at the footfalls. The barrel of his gun rattles like the tail of a viper as the footsteps get closer. He doesn’t know if the harsh breathing is his. He can make out a shape, tall and imposing in the darkness. It weaves and bobs with each step. Darkness gathers around its form, punching the barrier of the light. The lamp dims, shadows writhe. Twisting and turning, arching against the waning light. His breath is quicker now, harsh and panicked as he tries to steady his gun. The sting of the burnt down cigarette vaguely registers in his mind as he brings his hand up. 

“Stop where you are!”

His hands feel numb, the smooth metal of his gun feels muted against his fingertips. The acrid smell of his sweating form, the putrid stink of the alley, gag him and he sways. Dizzy from fear, anticipation, nerves. He can’t tell. 

“I’ll fucking shoot!”

His fingers clumsily pull the latch of his gun. The grip wet from the sweat of his palms. He fumbles, eyes wild, dread pooling through him. His body is frozen, fingers poised over the trigger.

“Goddammit I will”

But still the footsteps come. Closer and closer until they are almost upon him. He feels the cold grip of the darkness snake along his skin. The light flickers and sputters against it. 

He had to he had to he had to

He aims, closing his eyes as he fires into the darkness.

The bang of the gun rings in his ears. His breathing frantic as he opens them, wildly searching. The alleyway is empty. There are no footsteps. No looming shadows. The light of the lamp flickers around him, bright, pushing the shadows back. His gun is still extended, pointing toward the courtyard. He lowers it, placing his hand against his sweat covered face, scrubbing harshly. Trying to steady his frantic heart beats, the jarring of his breath. He turns his back on the shadows, hoping that the rest of the night will be better when he feels it.

A prickling.

Worse than before. It ghosts across his neck, a grotesque lovers kiss. A deep sigh rattles against his ear. A face emerges from the shadow and over the side of his shoulder. He stays still watching in abject horror as it turns towards him. Its eyes glow, iridescent in the darkness. Deep steady breath fans across his face. He remembers when he was a child, his father taking him hunting. He remembers his father pushing him down as a grizzly came charging out of the woods. He remembers the small beady eyes watching him, the breath that spread across his face. It pushed his body with its sharp claws before lumbering away leaving his father’s body behind.

The figure regards him. Eyes staring unblinking into his. The man’s breath coming out in short rapid exhales. 

“I smell blood…”

Its voice grinds and vibrates. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand-

The thing- beast- growls and he wants to step away. He wants to move. He needs to move. The face moves closer and he flinches. He stays still, breath coming out in hitches, trapped. He knows if he moves, he’s dead. The silence stretches- tight and sharp- pressing into his skin like a blade. Finally the eyes slide away from him, their attention on the closed door of the gambling den.

“...but not on your hands…”

It moves, taking the looming darkness with it. It completely smothers the lamp’s light bathing the alleyway in black. The pulsing pressure of the beast finally pushes him over the edge. He slumps against the wall, knocking his head harshly on the bricks. He feels the ground shaking beneath him. The beast wretches open the door, light and laughter spilling into the alley. The occupants of the room stop their conversation, staring at the now open door in confusion. 

“What the-”

The man hears the crack of a bone, he doesn’t know which but the accompanying screaming tells him that it must have been a major one. It only takes a moment for the others to break their stunned silence. 

“What the fuck?!”

“Shoot it!”

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

Gunshots ring out in the room. The screaming becomes frantic, louder, as man after man meet their grisly end. The man covers his ears, humming to himself to block out the noise. The ground shakes and rolls under him. He sees the shadow of a man running for the door but he never makes it. He watches the shadow man’s neck break, his body falling to the ground like a rag doll. He squeezes his eyes shut. He hears the crashing of tables, groans of the wooden columns. He hears the large ornate chandelier crash to the ground. Another scream, glass tinkling, crunching. He presses his hands tighter to his ears. 

This must be hell. 

It has to be hell.

He stays like that- hunched in an empty dirty alleyway- hands covering his ears, eyes squeezed shut. 

_ “It’s a dream, it’s a dream, it’s a dream,”  _ He mutters to himself over and over. He jumps every time a new scream joins the chorus. Every time a new shot rang out. He wondered vaguely where the police were. 

“It’s just a dream.”

The screaming soon turns into gurgling gasps. The silence that follows is the worst he’s ever experienced. It rushes in, filling all of the spaces where sound used to be. It cracks his ears, popping them so harshly that he wonders if they are bleeding. Maybe then he won’t hear the screams. The smell of blood began to seep into the alley. He can taste it in his mouth. Bitter and thick. He retches, bits of his voidance splashing his clothing. It mixes with the fetid scent of the alley causing his stomach to roll once more. The ground heaves towards him. His shirt sticks to his chest and back, drenched with sweat. He feels a hand rest on his back. It smoothed over his jacket, rubbing circles into the fabric. He sobs, back heaving against the hand. Another moves to his face wiping the sweaty hair from his brow. He slowly opens his eyes.

A woman kneels next to him, her expression sad. Her black hair was pulled back into two braids that wrap around her head. He can make out the deep brown of her skin, the brown of her eyes. It took a moment for him to realize that she was see through. The yellow dress she wore was stained with dark patches that spread from her chest and abdomen. 

The smell of iron had grown stronger and his stomach rolls once more. She turns her head away from him and he follows her gaze. The man, beast- nightmare!- stands in the light of the doorway, silently. He whimpers and presses against the wall away from it. The woman stands, her skirts floating around her feet as she moves towards it. She reaches for the creature’s face, unbothered by the blood that is splattered across, cradling it in her ethereal hands. He watches as the creature’s expression changes, morphs. It closes its eyes and leans into the touch. Love, regret, grief flit across its face, so fast that the man almost didn’t see it. The woman in turn presses herself into its body and wraps its blood covered arms around her. The man turns his gaze away. He felt ashamed. Like he had just witnessed a private moment. A moment not meant for his eyes. At that moment it had become more man than beast. 

But it only for a moment. The creature’s face contorts again, the light darkening as its presence flared anew. The woman touches the creature’s chest, her voice a ghostly whisper.

“ _ Arthur…” _

She fades away and the creatures arms fall limply to its sides. Its eyes glint again in the light and the man knows he’s watching him now. He waits in tense silence, awaiting whatever judgment befalls him. The creature steps towards him, slowly crouching down until its eyes were level with his.

“Leave…”

The man scrambles to his feet, boots slipping in the mess. He runs out of the alley, the weight of what had transpired crashing into him as he races towards the street. Towards safety. He explodes from the alley, running swiftly into the street. He doesn’t look back. He’ll never look back. If he did he would have seen two glowing eyes slipping back into the darkness, leaving only carnage behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love that RDR has so many strange and paranormal encounters. From ghosts to aliens to whatever the heck The Stranger is. So for my love of ghost stories, I decided to try my hand at one. 
> 
> I messed with the events a bit. They meet Angelo Bronte sooner, Dutch opting to work more with him than follow through with the plan to play the Braithwaites and Grays against each other. Agent Milton still shows up at camp to offer clemency to the other members in exchange for Dutch. But they aren't able to escape to Shady Bell and Milton uses the Gatling gun from the military base sooner.


	7. Angel de Amor

Javier’s fingers played skillfully over the neck of the guitar. He coaxes notes from the old steel strings, the melody soft and sad, slowly echoing out into the night. Arthur feels the bitter sting of jealousy as she smiles and sways in her spot on the log, her eyes closed to the melody. Arthur takes a long pull from the bottle in his hand and stares deep into the depths of the fire. 

_ “Angel de amor, tu pasión no la comprendo _ . _ ” _

He misses the opening of her eyes as she watches him, the smile twisting into something different, familiar yet new. 

_ “Si la comprendo, no la puedo expresar.” _

The last of the notes fade away, joining the chorus of the night, and she blinks away her expression. 

Arthur waits until the others have left the fire, slowly trickling to their or other’s beds before he asks.

“Javier...”

“Si, amigo.”

“Can you teach me that song you just played?”   
  


Javier smirks down at the guitar, his fingers slowly plucking out a soft melody. He knew that Arthur would ask at some point. It was no secret that outside of Jack and Hosea, Arthur had only one person he cared deeply for in camp. His fingers come to a stop resting gently on the strings as Arthur sits on the log next to him, staring into the fire.

“Of course.”

Arthur could hear what the song is  _ supposed _ to sound like in his head. He knew the tone of each note and could hum it perfectly. But his fingers refused to play along. They fumbled on the strings, stumbling along the neck in a drunken shamble and he felt frustration start to set in. Javier was not a bad teacher. He had taught him the basics over the last few days and Arthur was able to pick it up easily enough. No, the fault lay with him. He didn’t have the finesse, his fingers too big and clumsy to land in the places he needed them to. His fingers tighten on the strings, their iron threads cutting into the pads of his fingers.

Javier slowly takes the guitar from Arthur’s grasp and he sets it down next to him on his chair. The camp is quiet, the sounds of the dark countryside mixing with the sound of sleep. They sit in silence, waiting until the tension bleeds from Arthur’s fingers and his shoulders relax. Javier quietly hands the guitar back and they begin again.

Slowly, painfully, he learns the notes, the strings bending under his touch. It’s still unsure, stilted in each notes progression but each finger lands true. Javier is patient, shifting Arthur’s hands and arms into more relaxed positions. They play and stop and then play again. Night after night until one day Arthur  _ gets  _ it. The stiltedness of the notes ebb away, his fingers move effortlessly across the strings, his shoulders are relaxed. And when the last note plays, echoing softly into the night, Javier turns to him with a huge smile on his face.

“Muy bien, cowboy. Now all you have to do is learn the words.”

Arthur Morgan knows he is not a singer. His voice, gruff and coarse, wasn’t made for Spanish. He can tell from the way Javier winces every time he butchers a word, his smile falling into a grimace. But every night he watches her by the campfire. She sways and closes her eyes to the sound of the guitar. Face pulling into a smile as Javier begins to sing and he wishes that he was. 

It took longer than he liked to admit to realize he was in love with her. He had been in denial for the entire time they were in Blackwater. He ignored the ways her laugh or smile would curl into his chest, warming the ice around his heart. It ached with every pulse and he often caught himself rubbing the spot with the heel of his hand. He  _ refused _ to allow his heart to thaw, to allow it to experience that pain again. 

It wasn’t until the law came roaring into the camp did he feel the poorly constructed dam crumble. When he feared that she would meet the same fate as Jenny. The relief that racked his body when she appeared safe at the back of the wagon, her dark eyes wide with fear peeking over the side of the wooden slat covering the back. He struggled to voice the words that swirled in his heart. All the things he wanted to say to her for weeks after were muddled and confused, his mind just as clouded as the blizzard that swallowed him as he left the wagons behind.

He dreams of them flying through the night sky. Streaks of light against the inky blackness. Her dark skin glittering like gemstones, an otherworldliness that steals his breath. He cradles her to him and whispers the words of his heart as her skin glows in light of the sun. Her voice joins his, delicate as the gentle chime of a wind charm. Together they sing, the echoes of their voices, soft as a whisper, propelling them faster over the expanse.

He wakes the next morning to an odd lightness in his chest. He rubs the spot above his heart feeling the gentle pulse. Something had changed. It had clicked into place having been left askew longer than he realized. That night he takes the guitar from Javier, his fingers running over the strings in gentle strokes. He opens his mouth and Javier braces himself. What comes out is not what he was expecting. It was still coarse as sand but he sang softly, gently, his voice barely carrying over the crackle of the wood. Arthur sang in some places, hummed in others. His eyes closed- images of firelight sparking across her skin, her smile glowing like the stars- danced behind his eyes. When his voice fell into a whisper, the last note fading away, he turned to Javier.

“I-“ Javier stops, covering up the hitch in his voice with a cough, “That was good. More than good. I think you got it from here.”

He watched them from his position by the fire, this big statue of a man gently escorting Ms Jackson towards a spot just on the edge of camp. He watches Arthur slowly set her down on a blanket and gestures for her to wait. Arthur reaches behind the trunk of a tree pulling out the guitar and her head tilts in confusion. The man's fingers fumbled along the strings, his shoulders tense, expression nervous. He takes a deep breath and begins to play. 

Javier would always remember this moment. The moment he saw real love for the first time.

It stayed with him, a memory he played over and over again in the dim light of his cell, the moon his only witness to the slow fall of tears. It was a time from when things weren’t so complicated, when things weren’t falling apart. He watches the stars blink out as dawn’s curling light filters in through the small filthy window of his cell. The memory starts over again as the officers come to take him


	8. Moonshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the prompt for Yeehawgust day 6: Moonshine

“YOU’RE...You’re beautiful!”

Tilly looks up from her seat at the table watching as Arthur sways in place, a dopey smile on his face, a half empty bottle moonshine clutched in his hand. She sighs.

“That’s the moonshine talking...”

She pushes back from the table and gently takes the bottle from his hand. Arthur lets it go with no resistance, eyes bright and hazy from the alcohol. He watches her set it down on the table. He shakes his head, grunting when the world swirls in front of him.

“N-no,” he stutters, the slight lisp of his words more prominent now that his tongue is relaxed, “S’not the alcohol.” He reaches a hand out for her hand that still rests on the table. He takes it in his, his thumb caressing the back. 

“You really are beautiful,” he murmurs, the reins on his tightly held emotions slack, and for a moment she believes him. She wishes of all the times he could say this it wasn’t when he was drunk. When he wouldn’t remember this encounter. Her heart stutters in her chest and she smiles sadly, slowly retracting her hand from his.

“Come on, Arthur,” she whispers, gently taking his elbow to lead him up the sloping stairs of Shady Belle. He follows her, quietly humming along with the song. His arm brushes her side and she closes her eyes against the pit in her stomach that yawns and churns. She leads him up the creaking stairs, hand trailing the banister for balance. His large form presses against her on the narrow stairs. The scent of leather and the sweet bitter scent of his horse encompassing her. And she feels her heart crack even more. They reach the top of the stairs turning on the landing in the direction of his room and he stops her with his hand, still swaying in place.

“Are you,” he wets his lips with his tongue and she follows it’s progress, “are you _my lady_?” 

Her eyes snap to his. His face is open, eyes tinged with a sad hopefulness and she wonders how many times he’s asked this. How many times he’s been denied. His expression falls slightly more and more with each passing moment of silence. She wants to say yes. To say that she wants nothing more than to be his. To wrap her arms around him and hear his voice caress her name. To tell him of the dreams she has at night of them together and whole. In a cabin, by the beach. It doesn’t matter where, just as long as they were together.

Slowly she shakes her head and hates the sadness that moves in. Fill all the spaces that had been carved out by years of hope and disappointment. Of past failures and regrets that she knows haunts him. She watches him slowly pick up his broken scattered pieces, sealing them back into place in front of his heart. He straightens in front of her and nods.

“I’m sorry,” he burrs, voice soft and rough, “I don’t want to encroach-“ 

“I’m not,” she stops him, her voice a hushed whisper. 

_This is a mistake_ , her mind calls. 

“I don’t- I’m not-,” she closes her eyes and breathes in deep, “I’m not anyone’s lady...” 

He watches her face, eyes still clouded from the alcohol and all she can think is oh god. That she just committed the worst mistake of her life and now she will never be able to show her face in front of him again. Even if he doesn’t remember this, even if he does, she would never be able to look him in the face again. She looks down at her shoes, the mud of the swamp caked and dry. His arm falls heavy around her shoulders and she looks up as he pulls her to his chest. 

“Oh, I’m glad.” His voice vibrates through his chest and into her and she longs to stay just like this for all eternity.

_But he won’t remember_

“In the mornin’,” he continues, “I’m going to take you out and show you all the spots I found. All the ones that made me think of you.” His deep voice is filled with such relief, with so much happiness, her eyes fill with tears.

_He won’t remember_

She brings her arms up and hugs his waist, face buried into his chest, as crystalline tears fall from her eyes. They stay like that, swaying back and forth to the muffled guitar outside. She pulls back slowly, discreetly wiping her nose on her hand, a bittersweet smile plastered on her face.

“That sounds lovely, Arthur.”

His lips curl up into a crooked boyish smile and she longs to see it more often.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

He nods again, the crooked smile still on his face as he follows her into his room. He groans sitting on his cot, shoes thunking to the floor. She removes his hat from his head and lays it on the bedside table, eyes avoiding the gaze of Mary ‘s photo. A not so silent specter that hangs over him.

She turns to go, his voice stopping her just as she reaches the doorway. She half turns, finding him on his side looking at her. His lids blink slowly, eye lashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks. 

“Am I a good man?” 

Her response is automatic, voice fierce in her declaration. 

“The best man.” 

His blinking stills and he takes a deep breath. Body sinking into the mattress as sleep overtakes him. 

“Good night, Arthur...” 

She leaves, quietly shutting the door behind her.

* * *

She awakens before everyone else. She can see their forms scattered around the old plantation. Some lying on their beds, some in others. She quietly walks out, feet slowing to a stop as she notices the door to Arthur’s room wide open. The last night’s conversation is fresh in her mind as she walks down the stairs and outside. 

A quiet cough makes her glance up and Arthur stands beside his horse, dressed in a clean shirt and pants. His hat is tucked against his chest and he fiddles with the brim.

“I, uh,” he breathes in deep, chest pushing the fabric of the shirt out, “I seem to recall that I promised to take you out and show you some things.” 

She touches the edges of her shawl and looks down, face heating up.

“Oh, oh no,” she flusters, hand waving in front of her, “I know it was just the alcohol talking! I-“

She stops talking as she looks up, his eyes trapping hers. He steps toward her, expression soft and determined, eyes searching her face.

“It wasn’t the alcohol talking.”

It comes out in a breath and she closes her eyes against the hope. He steps closer and she can feel the solidness of his form. 

“I would lo-,” he stops again and she feels his hand touching her cheek softly, “I _want_ nothing more than to take you out. If… If you’ll allow it.”

Her eyes open and she hears all the things he wants to say. 

_If you want me_

_If you’ll love me_

_If you’ll have me, jagged pieces and all_

Her voice wavering as she answers, a smile blooming across her face. An answering one on his.

“I’ll allow it.”


	9. Caress

It started as a tingle in his trigger finger. A sort of numbness to the flesh that he didn’t think too much of. He figures he had slept wrong on his bed, having collapsed the night before in complete exhaustion. He curls his hand into a fist and squeezes, feeling the blood drain from the tightly clasped fingers, knuckles turning white. He lets it go slowly, blood seeping back, the tingling gone.

He doesn’t think of it again until one morning he wakes up to a deep dull ache that persists throughout the day, despite his best efforts to shake it away. The more he tries, the worse it gets. He sits clenching and unclenching his fist behind his tent in the cold mountain air, the ache pulsing around his knuckles, fingers stiff. 

“It’s arthritis, Arthur. The gunslingers worst enemy,” Hosea says one day as they ride into town for supplies. Arthur grunts as he holds his fist tight, nails biting into his palm. 

“I ain’t that old.”

“No, I supposed you’re not,” Hosea chuckles as he coaxes the horse into a trot, “but you aren’t young either. Unlike myself.”

Arthur shakes his head, a soft smile forming on his lips. He releases his fist once more and sighs, shaking his hand. He can still feel the ache deep in the bones, spreading out through his flesh but he can bend his fingers at least. That he will take as a win.

The wagon pulls onto the dirt road that runs through Valentine, coming to a stop beside the general store. Arthur hops down, tying the reins with a practiced hand to the hitching post as Hosea steps down from the wagon groaning.

“Young, huh?” 

“Oh, hush.”

They step inside together and Arthur pushes the pain to the back of his mind. 

He has come to live with this ache. The dull pulse of his fingers that stiffen in the cold air but loosen in the sun’s warmth. He carries it like he does all his pain- silently tucked away in the recesses of his mind. Occasionally his mind trots them out like old war horses, battle scars on full display for the crowd. The ache in his side from a piece of the bank’s steel door that had been launched from dynamite. The soreness of his spine from falling off the sides of trains, stagecoaches, horses. The gnawing at his heart. Grief and anger and hate clawing their way through the chambers. It throbs and twinges, pain as deep as the pulse of his fingers. He lives with each and every one. Never stopping for a moment to assess the damage. Never questioning the nature of their effects. He lives a harsh life devoid of care and comfort. What is one more rock to the load?

A cold snap greets him in the morning, frost covering the ground and fabric of the tents. The others stand near the fire, huddled close for warmth in their winter gear. It was still May and yet winter’s sharp edges cut their way through the air. He tried to continue his day as normal, pulling his gloves onto his hands to hide the swelling of his joints. He sat by the fire, hand curled into a tight fist, a grimace turning the corners of his mouth down. The others glanced in his direction before turning away. They knew when to avoid him when he looked that way. When the light in his eyes dulled to rusted iron. Arthur spends most of the day hiding his hand, grabbing things with his left instead. His shots went wild with his left hand, missing marks by mere centimetres but he feels the foreign pull of it. The way it wavered and swayed under the weight of the gun causing him to have to shoot more than once. He was thankful at least that he had not encountered any O’Driscolls, any bounty hunters or Pinkertons. He went to bed with dreams of meeting them on the road. Of shots running wild and hands that swayed. 

One night he came back to camp, fingers aching in the cold, as exhaustion rocked through him. He settled by the fire, heat blooming through his body as he cupped the tin of stew in his hands. It lessened the pounding in his bones, a quiet grunt the only indication of his discomfort. Across the fire, she sat watching him try to grasp the spoon in his right hand. Long, thick fingers curling half way before he shakes them out- playing as if he had simply burned himself through his thick gloves. 

She knows something is wrong. Somewhere along the way he had injured himself. That he’s been hiding it from the rest of camp. Out of the need to appear strong or to not appear weak, she couldn’t say. She looks down at her bowl, raising the spoon to her mouth, an idea forming in her mind.

As the weeks went by Arthur began finding bottles in his tent. Each meticulously labeled with thin flowing script. One was labeled for pain, another for rubbing into the skin. In the back of his mind he knows the writing from somewhere but can’t remember where. He had examined each one, opening the stoppers and smelling the contents. They smelled like sage and mint, the slightly bitter scent of yarrow, of the spice of currant and ginseng. He takes a sip of the one for pain, feeling the pulse in his fingers begin to fade slowly. He takes some of the ointment from the other bottle and rubs it on his fingers watching the swelling go down. Despite the cold, his fingers feel they used too. Better than that in fact. He silently thanks the sender as he pockets both bottles and leaves the camp.

He spends the day hunting and fishing, all the things he had avoided. He drew the landscape around Valentine, holding the pencil confidently between his fingers. After weeks of avoidance and substitution, he felt like himself. Everything was going well until a couple weeks later. He woke to pain so harsh, he doubled over. Snow blanketed parts of the ground, frost freezing the flaps of the tent. It seeped into his skin, cold scraping the marrow of his bones. He takes a gulp of pain reliever, reaching for the bottle of ointment. He tried to grasp the stopper with his fingers. They curled halfway before stopping. He curses them as he grasps the bottle between his teeth.

“Arthur, you in here?”

He quickly let’s go of the bottle, setting it aside quickly as the flap to his tent moves open a crack.

“Yeah. What did you need, Tilly?”

She pokes her head through the crack, her halo of braids dusted lightly with snow and his heart flops peculiarly in his chest. She steps partially in his tent, just now realizing how small it was with Arthur in here.

“I just wanted to check on you,” she says as she looks around, eyes roaming the pictures behind him. Arthur self consciously tries to smooth his hair down with one hand before wincing. 

“Oh, are you ok?”

He sighs heavily, eyes closing briefly. He had hoped that she wouldn’t notice. His hand plucks at the bottle hidden by his leg as she watches him, concern mirrored on her face.

“It’s nothin'. Just slept wrong I guess.”

“I can help with that… if you want me to that is.”

His brow furrows as he watches her look down at her shoes, fingers plucking at the buttons on her coat. He didn’t want to bother her with this but he was curious as to what she had in mind. Slowly he pulls the ointment bottle out and hands it to her. Her fingers run over the smooth glass and old label. 

“I’m supposed to rub that on my hand. Seems to help with the pain.”

She nods, uncorking the bottle and bringing it to her nose. The scent of the crushed herbs she’s asked Charles to gather for her curl from the bottle. She smiles to herself, glad that the recipes William the herbalist had given her were helping. She made a note to thank William, Charles and Hosea, who showed her how to crush them, later. She moves closer to the bed, sitting down to Arthur’s right and holds out her hand. Arthur stares at it in confusion, brows together in thought.

“I need your hand,” she wiggles her fingers and he chuckles taking off his glove. As he placed his hand in hers he realized that he never really stopped to think about how small her hands were compared to his. How rough and worn they were compared to her soft ones. He watches as she pours some of the bottle onto his skin and he shivers slightly from the cold liquid.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, fingers quickly working it into his hand. They press and tug, pulling each of his fingers out gently, taking care to not pull his index finger too harshly. Her thumbs run circles on his palm, pressing deep into the muscle. She laces their fingers together and slowly rotates his wrist one way and then the other. The scent of the ointment and the warmth of her hand lulls him and he closes his eyes, enjoying the tingle that spread through him. 

_ Maybe _ , his mind whispers,  _ you can ask her to do this again. Maybe she can touch the other places that hurt _ .

Abruptly he pulls his hand away, her fingers falling away as he stands and grabs his discarded glove. She stares up at him, eyes blinking in surprise.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she stands from the bed, “did I hurt you?”

Arthur shakes his head as he dons the glove, the ghost of her fingers still on his skin. 

“No, it was- it was good-”

_ Too good _

“-I just don’t want to take up more of your time.”

Tilly nods as she wipes her hands on the hem of her skirt. She leaves, the soft scent of her perfume lingering in the air. His fists clench.

The days meld into one another, the biting cold of the nights giving way to the warming cool of the day. He rotated around her, drawing in only to step back again. He’s avoided feeling the touch of her fingers. Feeling the tingling warmth that spreads through him. Since that day, he’s not needed her. But his mind still whispers to him in the darkness of how her skin felt, how he can still feel it against his, how he wondered what they would feel like touching him in other places. He would always leave camp, desperately trying to outrun these thoughts. He would lose himself, hours falling away, as he rode hard through the land surrounding camp. He would relish in the pain of his fingers, forcing them into position as they protest. It was his own means of punishment. A check to his thoughts. But even then when his body is exhausted, fingers aching, his mind is not quiet. 

He catches himself watching her fingers. Watching them nimbly move the needle through the cloth, as they cut the vegetables and herbs. They way they look grasped around the cold bottle of alcohol, curling around the sides. He tried to replicate the motions of her hands on his own. Tried to get the way her fingers dragged over his but he could never get it right. It eluded him each time, the pressure and pain building until he could no longer move his fingers. It proved to be his undoing.

“Arthur?”

Her voice whispered to him in the darkness and he looked up from his position on the bed. A triangle of fire light pierces the inky black and he marvels at how it frames her in it’s orange light. She steps in and he’s glad for the darkness. For the cover that hides the ways his eyes follow her. She stands by the tent flap again, body framed by the light and he thinks back to all those weeks ago. To the time before. Before Sean’s death, before his capture, before he started to realize that Dutch had started to become someone he didn’t recognize. He had gotten his deepest wish when he came back. To feel the touch of her skin against his. He didn’t have the word for how much he had craved it until his body, exhausted from injury and loss of blood leaned into her cool hand. The startling realization that he craved her had plagued his mind as he drifted in and out of consciousness. That he didn’t just want her touch but he wanted her care, her regard. He watches as her form moves in closer to him. As she slowly sits down next to him on the bed. They sit for a long time in silence, listening to the muffled voices outside drift away until only the sound of the night can be heard.

He wants to say something. Something big, something profound to express his thoughts. To express all the ways he feels. A near death experience has a funny way of showing people all the things that they would miss the most. He had always thought his would be different. That the face staring back at him would be one of the past. That she would be the one to fill his thoughts. But like many things he was wrong. He wants to say something amazing to her to make her understand, instead he holds out the hand she had touched so many weeks ago. The hand that she had clung to desperately as she tended his wounds. As she whispered the goings-on of the camp in his ear when she thought he was asleep. How her lips felt like ghosting across the knuckles. 

It’s an invitation. One that he hopes she takes. One that he hopes she can understand. They can talk now, later, anytime she wants but right now- right this second- all he wants is her hand in his. 

She takes it.


	10. Bless my hand

_ [torn piece of paper, frayed edges yellowed with age] ...You bless me with your touch. Fingers stroking like brushes on a canvas. They draw patterns on my skin, tracing the plane of me. I wonder what you see? _

_ [carefully folded paper, the creases sharp despite the age and wear] … You kiss my chest and my heart trembles. It beats against my ribs, fluttering like a bird. There is hope in those wings. Dreams in its song. Does your heart beat as mine? _

_ [margin of an old newspaper, written between the ads] …I can still feel your hand on my waist, your breath in my ear... _

_ [fragment of a letter] … You asked me once what I think of when I see you and I had no answer. The truth is you are so many things to me. You are the earth beneath my feet, the stars in the sky. I look to the sun and I think of your face. I feel the wind on my neck and I think of your lips. You are everything and nothing at all… _

_ [drawing of a tree, branches barren of leaves on a lonely hill] ...Sometimes in the night my mind fills with a fear I cannot describe. A worry of what my love for you will do. How it would surely ruin you under its gaze. I worry it is not enough, that you will leave and I will be alone again. But then you turn over and pull me into your chest and the fears flow away like leaves on the wind… _

_ [letter to A. Carter] ...We have processed your payment through the bank and enclosed is the deed... _

_ [written inscription on a books’ inside cover, the fabric curling with age, delicate pages still intact but tipped with yellow discoloration] If you were the moon, I would be the tide rising and falling at your hand/ If you were the sun, I would be the flowers opening under your gaze/ If you were the river, I would be the deer drinking deep from your cool  _ _sweet waters_

_ [a carefully wrapped flower press, the pink of the lotus shining brightly in the glass that framed it] ...If you are, then you are. I will love you regardless. Come to me tonight... _

_ [whispered conversation by a gleaming fire, hands brushing on the log before their pinkies intertwine]  _

_...I’m worried that everything is going to fall apart _

_...If it does, I will make sure you are far away from it _

_...What about you? _

_...What about me? _

_...Don’t. Don’t do that. You are just as important. What happens to you matters to me. Will you come back to me? _

_...I will. For you I always will.  _

_ [wrinkled parcel wrapping, passed back and forward, Domino game scores tallies, notes written in the margins] _

_...Will you? _

_...Forever and a day _

_...But I don’t have it yet _

_...It doesn’t matter to me.  _

_...It matters to me _

_...I have always been yours from the moment you kissed me. A ring would be nice but I don’t need it.  _

_...So yes? _

_...Yes _

_ [intricate drawing of a cabin, notes written in the margins]  _

_...Maybe a second room? _

_...Needs a window looking out towards the mountains and valley _

_...DEFINITELY NEEDS A SECOND ROOM _

_ [soft voices, crickets and the sound of the stream rushing nearby] _

_...I have you, shh _

_...I thought I was lost. That I would be taken away _

_...If you were I would burn the world down to find you _

_...Can you- I want you to-  _

_ [the sound of clothes falling softly to the floor] _

_...Are you sure? _

_...Yes _

_ [note carefully tied to the corded rope band of a hat, ends tucked in to keep it from falling away] ...you kissed my palm, your stubble rubbing against my fingers, as your eyes met mine before you kissed my lips. When you are gone I ache for you to bless my hand again. _

_ [seawater stained letter, sent but received after his arrival, discarded next to a pile of clothes of an abandoned cabin] ...I wish you could see this. I have never seen an ocean so clear. I wish I was there with you. I wish I was still laying beside you. The sun painted you in gold as you smiled softly. I will never get enough of that smile, those eyes. I can never do them justice. My hands aren’t meant for that kind of beauty. Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me. I can feel your skin under my palms. Can smell your scent on my clothes, hear your whimpers in my ear. I miss you so much it hurts _

_ [Letter to A. Carter]...Construction on the cabin is complete. You don’t have to worry about payment. I appreciate everything you have done for me and my sons back in Valentine. All the best... _

_ [note, receiver unknown, tears staining the words] ...There were so many...They swarmed like wasps and I was so frightened for him...I am with Abigail and Jack...Charles has...Come back, come back, come back… _

_ [letter, a deed and the cabin drawing handed to her, had been tucked away between the pages of a worn journal] ...I often wondered if love was supposed to be the way it was before. That I was supposed to be so consumed by it that I would lose sight of where I end and they began. I didn’t want to worship another person as I had. Hoping that they would bless me with their regard if I pleased them. But with you it is different. I wake up each day and my heart fills with joy. Our love is soft and quiet, loud and all encompassing. You make me believe I can be a better person. That it is possible that there is so much more for me than this life. That we could be so much more.  _

_ [Last journal entry, words written underneath the clipping of a newspaper headline, VAN DER LINDE GANG MEETS DEMISE] ...I feel the ghost of you in this house. I hear your thoughts in these walls. I feel you in the swell of my stomach and on the small of my back. I see you in the stars at night. I hear your voice in the call of the wind.  _

_ [small postcard, envelope containing a gold ring with a topaz gem, words written in shaky cursive]  _

_ I love you I love you I love you _

_ I’m here I’m here I’m here _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been reading a lot of Pablo Neruda.


	11. Forgotten Picture

”Tilly... pack up Arthur’s tent, please.”

Tilly looks up from the clothes she was folding into her trunk and nods her head. It had been several weeks since Arthur and the rest left for the bank job in San Denis. After they had fled Shady Belle in the aftermath, they moved around until finally setting up in an abandoned village in the swamp. They thought it would be a short stay. But days turned into weeks and the month slowly bled into another. Arthur’s tent was the last one to be packed away, having been set up first with the thought that he would be the first to arrive back but that wasn’t the case. A part of her hopes that they are just laying low, hidden away from the men that killed Lenny. 

Killed Hosea. 

Her heart still hurts when she saw their bodies brought back into camp. Memories of Sean, Davey, Mac, and Jenny’s broken bodies; the light in their eyes forever snuffed out. 

She wipes at the corner of her eyes as she steps into his tent. The flaps turned down to block the rain and sun. She knows he had taken to sleeping in the room next to hers after her kidnapping. But so much of the tent was still him. The scent and warmth of him still fills the space. She sits down for a moment on his cot, fingering the blanket, feeling the soft but rough fabric underneath her palms. 

She half turns and slowly takes the photos tacked up down, looking at each one in turn. She’s seen them so many times when she would visit him. The nights they spent quietly talking about everything and nothing. The days they spent sitting near each other, their shoulders brushing lost in their own worlds but present all the same. She pauses in her work, smiling down at the photo of a young Arthur, Hosea and Dutch. Her fingers trace the lines of his face before she sets it aside on his desk with the others. 

She stands, unmaking the bed she had made so many times before. Each fold of the blanket or pull of the sheet stirs up his scent until it lingers heavy in the air. She closes her eyes, hands bringing the blanket to her chest as she imagines him coming in and holding her to his side again. Tears fall from her eyes as she places everything in his trunk. 

The flower that reminds him of his mother. The books and photos and articles he’s collected. The bits of stubby pencils he forgets to throw away. Her fingers pause on the framed photo of Mary. It had been turned down and placed in the drawer of his night stand. 

Mary was beautiful. 

In all the ways one would expect of a high society lady. But to Tilly she was like a viper. Beautiful but deadly. Her mouth twists into a grimace as she remembers the look on Arthur’s face when he had seen her again. He came back to camp, shoulders hunched and tight, face like thunder. He closed the flaps on his tent that night for the first time in a long time and she hated her. Hated the way that she twisted him up like a whirlpool, dashing him against the rocks until he broke. Her fingers ball into fists and she wants nothing more than to smash it to the ground. 

But... 

But she knows that he’ll miss it at some point. When Mary comes calling again. When she beckons her finger and he goes to her, falling overboard once again. 

“Tilly, are you done yet?”

Tilly quickly places the photo down on the nightstand, the frame sitting near the edge. As she stands to answer her hip bumps it. The frame wobbles and falls unnoticed to the ground behind the nightstand. Mud and water from the storm quickly obscured it.

The hills of Roanoke grew eerily silent as the sun slowly inched low over the horizon. A sense of melancholy, exhaustion overtook the occupants of the encampment as they each retreated to their tents. They had settled here after the Pinkertons found them in that little shack. Arthur was grateful for Sadie and Charles for keeping everyone together. Mostly he was just glad to be out of the swamp. The wet air stuck to his lungs like tar, triggering his lungs to try to cough up the substance. The air in Roanoke wasn’t as humid as Lemoyne but he felt like he could breathe again. 

Exhaustion ate at him as he helped finish setting up camp. He had hoped after his extended visit to Guarma that they would rest. Let the heat die down for a few weeks until they had forgotten about them. Let them grieve. But Dutch had announced during dinner that he had a new lead, a new plan. 

Arthur just wanted it to be done.

He was tired of running around. Tired of the death and destruction that had been following them since Blackwater. When he woke up in Colter all those weeks ago, a stray thought had floated through his head. 

That this was the end. 

The end of what he couldn’t say exactly but the thought grew louder with each passing day, each passing failure. Sometimes he wishes he had taken everyone and run. Told Dutch to hell with his plans after Blackwater. When the jaws of the law finally showed themselves on that riverbank with Jack after weeks of paranoid anticipation. Maybe they wouldn’t be in this mess. 

“Arthur, you have a letter…”

Arthur stops near the flaps of his tent, exhaustion pulling his shoulders down, sloping his spine. He turns his head taking in Tilly’s nervous expression. He noted the slight bags under her eyes, the healed cut on her cheek and the scrape on her chin from the rough wooden floor. She looked as tired as he was. He reaches for her hand that was tightly grasping the fabric of her skirt. Her cool fingers slowly let go, slipping into his as he squeezes them gently. Dropping her hand he looks around before gesturing for her to follow him into his tent.

He sits on his cot, slowly stretching out his body as he toes off his boots. She lingers by the tent flap, hand back to bunching the fabric of her skirt. 

“So,” his voice fills the quiet space, the muffled sound of the camp filtering through the heavy fabric, “I have a letter?”

She nods, holding out her hand. The pristine white envelope shining like a beacon in the dark room. And he knows without even opening it who it was from. When he had seen her months before, he had thought that maybe this was a second chance. A second chance at love, not likely, but companionship was probably the better word. The feelings he had for Mary had cooled from their ardent almost obsessive level over the last few years. The hold she had on him loosening with each mile, each turn of the Earth. 

He doesn’t want to read anything she has to say. Not ever. It just wasn’t worth it. He realized that long ago when she had thrown his words back in his face. When she had looked down on him with disdain for his skills. But she still used them, still asked him to be the man she detested. Promises of affection rewarded for a good job done like he was some sort of dog. After he had gotten Jamie back, he had avoided anything to do with Mary Linton. Going as far as to burn any letters he had received, any favors she tried to pry from him. He knew she had written to him shortly before the botched bank robbery, before the trap had been sprung by the Pinkertons and that bastard Bronte. But he never went. He didn’t want to see her. Didn’t want to hear her wistfully sigh “ _ Oh, Arthur…”  _ as if he were a child as he tried to make her understand why he does what he does. Why he wants to keep the people he loves safe. Yes, he knows there are better ways but it’s far too late for that now. Whatever plans they all had, whatever hope they all had before Blackwater, had been shot and unceremoniously left to rot by the side of the road. 

His eyes moved up Tilly’s arm. His eyes tracing the column of her neck, the small scar on her cheek from one of the Foreman gang. His blood heats at that thought. He wished he had made it in time to spare her any harm. He wishes he hadn’t been jerked around and sent off on busy work by Dutch. Three people had been taken from camp. Three. And only two of them had made it back alive. If only he were there to prevent it. If only. This is one of the many regrets he will carry with him every day until the end of his days.

Tilly shifts bringing his attention from his thoughts, his eyes focused on her again. He moves over opening up more of his bed. He hopes that she understands the gesture. Her arm slowly falls, the envelope hidden by the pleats of her skirt. She hesitates before moving over to him, her body sagging in the lumpy mattress. 

“I...,” he begins, hand reaching for the letter. She gives it to him, the smooth surface feels foreign under his fingertips. A faint scent floating up from the paper, his nose recognizing it as the one Mary uses. His stomach clenches at the faint yet strong scent and he tosses it away from him onto his dresser. 

“Don’t you want to read it?” Tilly asks her eyes flicking from the discarded letter to him. He shakes his head, taking his hat off his head to run his hand through his hair. 

“Nah, just going to be more of the same.”

She nods understanding in her tired eyes. 

“How are you really?” he asks softly, their shoulders gently nudging as he shifts back to lean against the wall of the wagon. She moves back as well, her shoulder pressed against his. 

“Honestly? Scared. Angry. Tired. I don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring or the next day after that.”

“Yeah, I’m just living day by day. Hour by hour if I’m being honest.”

“That’s the only thing we can do.”

Arthur hums, head thunking gently against the wood behind him. He feels a slight pressure against his shoulder, eyes cracking open to see Tilly had laid her head on it. His heart beats a little faster and feels the tight spool of stress lessen. The letter lays forgotten on the nightstand. He’ll burn it later. Right now all he wants is to be in this moment with Tilly. Wants it to stretch into the next day and the day after that. The future is murky and unknown. Time will only tell if they can make it out of this but for now he welcomes the new feeling swirling in his chest. The way her eyes soften as she gazes into his. He feels like he just woke up from a nightmare and into a dream. A dream of them, of now, of the future. Things he had never considered now pouring into his head. His hand itches to draw them, write them down before they disappear. His heart soars.

“I missed you,” she whispers, moving to rest her chin on his shoulder, their eyes meeting. 

“Me too, Sweetheart,” He whispers back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a prequel to "The Stars in You and I"


	12. Surprise

“Arthur, when is your birthday?”

Arthur blinks, the brush in his hand stilling as he registers the question. Boadicea knickers, tossing her head in displeasure at the interruption. 

“I, uh…”

He didn’t like to think of his birthday. Didn’t like to celebrate it. It always heralded bad news. When he was younger, he remembers his mother giving him sweets from the general store. The money that later they could have been used to get her the medicine she needed. She died shortly after he turned six, his father dragging him away from the grave he had dug with his hands. He never celebrated it again.

His hand starts again, running it down the flank of his horse as he stalls. 

“Why do you wanna know a thing like that?”

He glances over his shoulder at Mary-Beth, who gives him a wide grin. She bounces on the heels of her feet, unbothered by the smell of the horses in the makeshift stable they stood in. 

“Oh, no reason really. I was just a bit curious as we celebrate everyone else’s birthday but yours seems to be the only one we don’t.”

He nods his head turning back to the horse in front of him, eyes trained on the soft fuzz under his palms. It was understandable for her to be curious. She was the newest member of the gang and didn’t know yet that he never celebrated his birthday. Hosea may give him something small, plants to make tonics with, a new fishing lure, a brand new hunting knife. Dutch would pat his shoulder and give him a hearty shake before offering him a shot of whiskey that he only drinks from on special occasions. But they never had a huge party like the one they had for Sean last week or Davey and Mac’s joint party that had turned into a bar crawl and ended up with them all streaking through the empty streets. Grimshaw made sure to yell as loudly as possible the next morning, physically and vocally, showing her displeasure at their antics. Tilly gave him a cup of coffee spiked with some yarrow and a soft smile that made the pounding in his head lessen.

“I don’t really celebrate it. Not much point for a man my age.”

“Oh…”

He leaves it at that, hoping that she will drop it. But when he glances over his shoulder, she has a mischievous smile on her face and he knows that this isn’t the end.

* * *

The next few days are strange to say the least.

Hosea gives him a look. It’s one they perfected and used when Hosea was about to switch tactics with a particularly stubborn mark. When he passed the girls, Karen would give her usual smirk and teasing while Mary-Beth would nudge Tilly who looked disgruntled at best. When he would ask her if she was ok, she would nod and look away before changing the subject. They were all definitely up to something. Or maybe it was just Mary-Beth who was. Either way he was starting to get the feeling that in a few days time he’s going to find out what it was exactly. 

The day of his birthday was calm to say the least. On his night stand, was some gun oil and a new brush. As he drank his coffee, Tilly brushed against his side and gently presses a bundle of yarrow and prairie poppy into his hand. It had been tied together with twine, a small note sticking out from their fresh green stems. 

“Thank you.”

“It’s not trouble, Arthur. I’ll see you later?”

“Definitely.”

He watches her leave, her skirt disappearing around the side of the meal wagon. 

“Hey, Arthur, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, Hosea.”

He places the bundle in his satchel and starts his morning. 

* * *

He wipes the last of the mud from his face and curses Trelawney under his breath for yet another idiotic scheme. He was _supposed_ to be doing surveillance for Hosea and Dutch for their next robbery when he ran into Trelawney who promised him valuable intel if he could help him with something.

“Just a small matter, dear boy. Then I will send you on your way.”

A small matter turned out to be that he had angered the wrong set of folks and Arthur had to take care of it. Which inevitably ended in a brawl, a chase and then Arthur having to hide from the law in a muddy ditch. Somehow through all of that Trelawney’s suit stayed pristine. That is until Arthur had shook the dirt from his hair, making sure to shake it in Josiah’s direction. He smiled, despite the bruise on his cheek, at the memory of his affronted expression as a huge glob of mud splattered across the expensive looking grey material. 

“I’ll send you the information soon,” Trelawney said, his face screwing up in distaste and Arthur clapped his hand on his back with a big grin as more dirt transferred over. 

He walked into camp, thinking about his warm bed and the stew he smelled riding in when Mary-Beth stepped in front of him practically vibrating with energy.

“Evening, Arthur!”

He goes to greet her, hand rising to tip his hat, when he is startled by her arms suddenly shooting out from her sides. 

“Surprise!”

“What?”

He looks around her to see the gang all gathered around the fire. Some with smiles, some a little bit confused, but all happy to see him, beers and stew in all of their hands.

“What is this?”

“It’s a birthday party! Well sort of a birthday party.”

“Hosea and I talked her out of her original idea,” Tilly said as she came up beside Mary-Beth, handing Arthur a bottle of whiskey and a bowl of stew. Mary-Beth pouts and nudges Tilly with her shoulder.

“Spoilsport. It was a great idea! Do you like it?”

“I- uh- I don’t know what to say,” Arthur murmurs. 

He really didn’t. 

A part of him feels happy to have this, thankful even. But the other part of him, the scared six year old boy with dirt under his nails and a bruise on his face, feared this. Feared that it would all be taken away in the dead of night like his mother. 

He watches Tilly laugh and smile with Mary-Beth. Their shoulders relaxed, eyes bright. He can’t spoil their fun. Not with his hang-ups and insecurities. 

“Yes. Thank you.” And he means it.

“Good!” Mary-Beth shouts linking arms with Tilly who winks at him before they walk back towards the gang. A chorus of greetings and happy birthdays met him as he settled beside the fire. 

* * *

In the darkness on the edge of camp he sits. A bottle of whiskey dangling from hand as he listens to the crickets chirp in the tall grass and the soft melody of music. A soft thread approaches his spot, coming to a stop on his right. 

“Taking a break?”

He nods, head light and empty. Tilly’s skirt brushes his arm and shoulder as she kneels down beside him, kicking her shoes off and stretching her legs. His arm comes up, automatically wrapping around her shoulders and drawing her into his side. Her arm wraps around his middle and they both sigh, content in each other's presence.

“What was her other idea?” Arthur murmurs, hand slowly rubbing her back and arm.

“Oh, she wanted to have everyone hide and then pop up and yell surprise. I told her that was likely to get someone shot like last time.”

“It was just one time,” Arthur grumbles, turning his body slightly towards her.

“John couldn’t sit down for a week,” she chuckles, nuzzling her face into his chest

“I still say he deserved it. Actually, I think he needs another one.”

Tilly hums, shaking her head. They sit under the stairs, content and warm from the food and drink in their systems. And Arthur can’t believe how happy he is at this moment. He wants to stay in this moment forever. 

“Happy birthday. I love you,” she whispers, softly cupping his cheek, her lips softly grazing his skin. 

“I love you,” he whispers back, his lips meeting hers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur just turned 35 in this story as it takes place a year before the games events. I think Arthur's birthday is in July and might possibly share a birthday with Roger Clarke, his actor. 
> 
> I had started writing this back in like June or July. I wanted to write a birthday story for Arthur,something short and sweet cause I think he deserves it. In an earlier chapter I had written a Modern AU story for Tilly's birthday, Chapter Two: "Slow Dance with You"


End file.
